"But we've not got either of 'em no longer, so they're no good now," Peter unfortunately reminded every one. "Don't ye know there be's always somethin' pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an' things an' feelin's never get that bad ye can't squeeze out some pleasantment. Don't ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an' half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an' Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin' us books? Don't ye mind? Now we've got somethin' pleasant here, right now--" And Bridget smiled. "What?" "May Eve." "What's that?" "'Tain't nothin'," said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow. "Sure an' it is," said Bridget; "it's somethin' grand." "'Tain't nothin'," persisted Susan, "but a May party in Cen'ral Park. Every one takes somethin' ter eat in a box, an' the boys play ball an' the girls dance round, an' the cops let you run on the grass. I knows all about it, fer my sister Katie was 'queen' onct." "We couldn't play ball, ner run on the grass, ner anything," said Peter, regretfully. "'Tisn't what Susan says at all," said Bridget, by way of consolation. "If ye'll harken to me a minute, just, I'll be afther tellin' ye what it is." Ward C became instantly silent--hopefully expectant; Bridget had led them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her implicitly and do what she said. "May Eve," began Bridget, slowly, "is the night o' the year when the faeries come throopin' out o' the ground to fly about on twigs o' thorn an' dance to the music o' the faery pipers. They're all dthressed in wee green jackets an' caps, an' 'tis grand luck to any that sees them. And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come thrue." She stopped a moment. "Let's make believe; let's make believe--" Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she recognized them. "Holy Saint Bridget! them's faery primroses!" Ward C was properly impressed. Eight little figures sat up as straight as they could; eight pairs of eager eyes followed Bridget's pointing finger and gazed in speechless wonder at the green Devonshire bowl. "Do ye think, Sandy, that ye could scrooch out o' bed an' hump yerself over to them? If Pether tries he's sure to tumble over, an' some one might hear." Sandy looked at the flowers without enthusiasm. "Phat are ye wantin' wi' 'em?" "I'll tell ye when ye get there. Just thry; ye'll be yondther afore ye know it." Cautiously Sandy rolled over on his stomach and pushed two shrunken little legs out from the covers. Putting them gingerly to the floor, he stood up, holding fast to the bed; then working his way from bed to bed, he reached the table at last, spurred on by Bridget's irresistible blarney: "Sure ye're walkin' grand, Sandy. I never saw any one puttin' one leg past another smarther than what ye are. Ye'd fetch up to Aberdeen i' no time if ye kept on at the pace ye are goin'."